Sand Drift
by DSpeedblood
Summary: Mad Max is sent on a mission to kill an enigmatic figure uniting the wastelands under an iron fist.
1. Chapter 1

The man in the red Civic fled across the desert, and the road warrior followed. The road warrior was many things—a fighter, when he had to be, a savior, when he could. Above all, though, he was Mad.

His prey would falter eventually, he knew. Gasoline was scarce, too scarce for a car to be anything other than a show of force and the flaunting of wealth, all wrapped together. The red Civic didn't have any external fuel tanks, the way that the road warrior's Pursuit Special did.

The tanks of the Pursuit Special had been fuel when the road warrior set off on his quest to find and kill the man in the red Civic. Now, at midday on the third day of the chase, they were still more than three-quarters full. It didn't matter that the Civic was faster. It would stop eventually.

The moment finally came, the faint glimmer of distant red no longer receding, twisting and warping in the haze off the sand in the brutal sun. It grew gradually larger, a smudge of color that grew from no larger than a beetle to the size of the road warrior's fist. The details gradually sharpened, resolving themselves into the form of a 1993 Honda Civic, its once brilliantly red paint dulled and pitted from the elements. Nothing stayed pretty in the wasteland for very long.

The road warrior could see that his target was still in the car. He admired that, in a way. A coward would have abandoned the car, choosing to extend their life the few minutes that running on foot would buy until they were run down. A dangerous man would stay in the car. The road warrior was curious, in a way, as to what the man in the Civic's weapon would be. His fists? A gun? His wits? The road warrior had taken on many men who had thought that they could beat him. That he was still alive, still driving, was all the evidence that was needed as to how those battles had gone.

The driver of the red Civic rolled his window down. "You're here to kill me," he said calmly.

It was a statement, not a question. "Yes," said the Road Warrior, cocking his shotgun and leveling it at the driver's head.

"You've got the wrong man,"

"Is that so?" asked the Road Warrior.

"It is. I'm after the same man you are. The one they call the Speedblood."

"So who are you?"

The Civic's driver smiled, and it briefly transformed his face and seemed to breathe life into the desert. "I'm Dirk Speedblood. And I'm going to hunt and kill whoever is using my name."

The Road Warrior regarded him intently. Finally, he was satisfied with something that he read in the man's face and nodded, swinging his shotgun up onto his shoulder as he extended his hand. "Max," he said.

From the passenger side of the Civic, a husky female voice spoke up. "It's nice to meet you, Max. I'm Krystal."

She looked to be half human and half cat. Some kind of mutant, probably. The sort that would be worshipped as a goddess in some parts of the wastelands and stoned to death to keep the bloodlines clean in others. The Road Warrior simply nodded. "You'll need some gasoline if we're to get to this imposter."

Dirk Speedblood nodded. "I've heard tell that the Speedblood runs Sacktown. It was where we were headed."

Max busied himself preparing to transfer some of the precious gasoline from the Pursuit Special to the Civic. "Then we'll go to Sacktown."

The journey took several days and nearly all of their gasoline, no matter how carefully they rationed it. But eventually they stood before the ruins of what had once been a thriving city. What remained was a mere ghost of its former self. The buildings were crumbling and poorly repaired in places, rising unevenly into the sky in a crude imitation of the skyscrapers that had once existed.

The streets were abandoned, and it quickly became obvious why. At the center of the town, a crippled man on a platform was stoking the enthusiasm of the population into a near religious fervor. "WHO RUNS SACKTOWN?" he demanded in a voice that boomed and filled every corner of the square, bouncing off the walls without any amplification.

"THE SPEEDBLOOD," the crowd responded in unison.

"WHAT DOES THE SPEEDBLOOD PROMISE US?"

"FOOD, WATER, AND GASOLINE," they roared.

"WHAT DOES THE SPEEDBLOOD PROMISE OUR ENEMIES?"

"DEATH! DEATH! DEATH!" they cried, stamping their feet and waving their arms wildly.

"While the crowd is distracted, I'm going to sneak into that building," said Dirk Speedblood, pointing at the tallest building in the town, "If anything is the Speedblood's castle, that is."

The castle was surprisingly easy to infiltrate, the two lone guards quickly and silently falling to his katana. As he made his way upwards, the castle seemed oddly familiar in some way, as though he had known it once long ago. Finally, at the top of the tower, he came to what could only be a throne room. The space was dominated by a Civic that had been reworked and gilded to become a magnificent chair, overlooking an enormous pit that seemed to reach all the way past the ground floor of the castle and into the very bowels of the Earth. The chair was occupied by a woman who stood and began clapping sarcastically as soon as Dirk Speedblood entered. "So, you finally made it," she sneered.

She was tall and might have been pretty but for the large L shaped scar on her face, a perfect mirror of the one on Dirk Speedblood's face. "I don't know who you are, but I'm the only Speedblood!" he yelled, charging forward to run her through with his sword.

She deflected the blade almost carelessly with a katana of her own. "Is that really the best you've got? My, what a waste all of that practice was."

Dirk Speedblood ignored her taunt and stepped forward to attack again. But as he began his swing, she suddenly unsheathed a dagger with her free hand and stabbed him in the chest. Dirk Speedblood fell to the ground, writhing in agony, feeling his blood oozing out of the terrible wound. "You'll have to do better, brother."

"Brother?" Dirk Speedblood asked, not understanding, "I don't have a sister. And my only brother is dead."

"That's where you're wrong, dear brother," she said, malice etched into her face, "Our parents always wanted a son, and so they raised me as one. And then _you_ were born. I swore that I would make you pay for taking our parents' love, and my vengeance is almost complete."

Dirk Speedblood shook his head, refusing to believe her words. "It's true, brother. I am Max Speedblood. Who do you think was behind your every failure? When you lost a swordfight and the blade snapped and gave you that scar, who do you think weakened the blade? When your friend murdered your girlfriend in a rage, who do you think drugged him to become violent? And when your flesh began to putrefy and wither, who do you think wished it to be so? It was me, Dirk Speedblood. I am the cause of all your pain!"

"It can't be true!" shouted Dirk Speedblood weakly.

"It is true. And now, my vengeance is complete. Your body will be decomposed to make the biodiesel that powers Sacktown," she said, as she pushed him towards the pit in the center of the throne room.

"Still," Max Speedblood mused, "It would be a shame to send your corpse down to the pits with a sword as fine as this."

She pulled the dagger free of his chest and in one smooth motion severed his hand, which was still tightly grasping his katana. Once her prize was free, she kicked Dirk Speedblood into the pit. He didn't even have the energy to cry out as he was swallowed by the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

The Road Warrior grunted and squinted at the castle. He slapped his hand against the side of his Interceptor to get the attention of a grimy looking street peddler. "One sack of guzzoline," he mumbled, almost as if to himself. The dirty merchant scrambled to his feet, digging through loose canvas sacks until he found one with the extra weight of a small sample of barely-refined gasoline. He brought it to Max, wincing tentatively as if afraid Max was going to take offense to the pitiful amount of fuel in the bag. But Max simply grunted an affirmative and handed over a few scraps of maggoty bread in exchange for the sack of gas.

An unhappy mewl sounded from the red Civic parked next to Max's Interceptor. "You can't be leaving, can you?" growled Krystal.

Max leaned up against the side of his Interceptor. "It's sundown already. Either your friend is dead or he wasn't being honest with us. Either way, this isn't a good place for enemies of the Speedblood."

The lioness opened the Civic's glove compartment, and half a dozen freeze dried mice spilled out of the overstuffed hold. "Want one?" she asked the Road Warrior.

"Sure." Max popped open the door of the Civic and slid into the driver's seat. It didn't feel right to be behind the wheel of another man's car. He couldn't remember the last time he had driven something other than the Interceptor, but he was reasonably confident that when he had, it was because the original driver had died. He took the mouse from Krystal and began to chew on it. It was all fur and bones.

"You should know," said Krystal, "Dirk Speedblood is a good man."

"I don't care."

Krystal ignored the interruption and continued. "Before all this, we were normal, believe it or not. Dirk Speedblood and Krystal Kimiko Kitami. Just your average Canadian racer kids."

The Road Warrior pretended not to listen, gazing off into the distance. But like all the times before, he could feel his resolve slipping. His greatest weakness, having a heart, was going to burn him yet again.

The feline-hybrid purred, thinking of some happy moment from before when the world went to hell. "We lost that life. But Dirk Speedblood didn't give up. I was shattered, and after that I had gone wild, completely feral, more beast than human. I lived in the wilderness among the animals for a long time… But Dirk Speedblood never stopped looking. He found me, and he convinced me that I had hung onto some part of myself that was still human."

Max opened the door of the Civic and stepped out. Nighttime had fallen, and the moonlight shone an ethereal green on Krystal Kimiko's cat-like eyes. The Road Warrior saw a single tear on her cheek. "Thanks for the mouse," he grumbled, as he stepped away into the shadows.


	3. Chapter 3

Dirk Speedblood was in hell. A writhing mass of tormented limbs and tortured faces. That was what hell was supposed to be, wasn't it? Yet Dirk Speedblood could still smell the stench of brewing diesel mixed with blood.

The last thing he remembered was falling into blackness. Watching his brother- no- his sister Max, as Max faded into the distance, gravity pulling Dirk Speedblood farther and farther away. He didn't remember passing out, and he certainly didn't remember dying.

"He's awake!" a shrill voice cried. "Fetch the doctor!" The mass around Dirk Speedblood moved. Only then did he feel the immense weight pressing upon him from above. Limbs, faces, bodies yet again. What was this living heap?

A bespectacled face, a man with long braids of hair coming from his nose, appeared next to Dirk Speedblood. "Yes, you're right," the man said, with the hint of a Russian accent. "This one is recovered. Please tell the Duke."

Dirk Speedblood heard the shrill voice from before echo the command. "Tell the Duke the new arrival has awakened!" And another voice, this one a little farther. "Tell the Duke the new arrival has awakened!" And another, still farther away.

Dirk Speedblood flexed his hand- the hand he still had. The other was a bloody stump. In the darkness, Dirk Speedblood squinted at the stump. It had been sutured shut. He felt the wound on his chest and located the telltale threads indicating that his body had been repaired. He was out of mortal danger.

A faraway voice interrupted Dirk Speedblood's reverie. "The Duke says to send him to One." Slightly closer, another voice repeated the command. Then the shrill voice. Then the bespectacled man, the one Dirk Speedblood had taken to calling the Doktor.

A gruff voice barked out in protest from somewhere below. "To ONE!?" the voice remarked incredulously? "Why not to Zero, like the rest of the new arrivals?"

The Doktor spit back an angry retort. "We're lucky this one is alive. The diesel at Zero would eat through his stitches within hours. Are you questioning the Duke's wisdom?" The Doktor kicked out somewhere into the mass of bodies, and the cry of protest indicated to Dirk Speedblood that the Doktor had hit his mark.

Hands appeared between the surrounding limbs and began to push at Dirk Speedblood. The Doktor spoke, "Welcome to the Kingdom of Pile, newcomer. The land of opportunity. You're lucky enough to start from One. Who knows, maybe someday you'll make it back to here, Fourteen, or even higher. Maybe you'll make it high enough to see the Duke."

"Pile?"

"Yes, that's what this place is called. Not a whole lot of space, so we live in a big pile. Some people are refugees, tossed down the pit by the one the call the Speedblood. Others among us were born here. Pretty soon, I think you'll find that we have much to offer. But for now, you're going to have to start from the bottom. Farewell, friend."

Hands pushed and pulled at Dirk Speedblood, dragging him deeper into the pile. One layer of bodies down, he lost sight of the Doktor. Another layer down, and he gagged at the foul stench in the air. Down and down Dirk Speedblood continued, and with each layer of bodies passed he found himself entrenched deeper in filth.

He passed through layer upon layer of the people of Pile. He saw some seamstresses stitching loose garbage, tattered cloth, and dry skin together to make new clothing for the citizens of Pile. He saw fungus farmers, scraping edible mushrooms and scabs off of other residents of Pile. Pile's Doktor was right; it was a full self-contained society, not unlike the one he came from.

Down past the industry layers, Dirk Speedblood found himself surrounded by sulking, feeble looking residents. The lowest of the low in society's ladder, they bore the entire weight of the Kingdom of Pile above them. Pinned by such a weight, Dirk Speedblood could barely move. The only level below Dirk Speedblood contained the Zeroes, stewing in natural biodiesel, at risk of drowning if they sag under the weight of society. Dirk Speedblood wondered how many layers of Zeroes were already drowned under the feet of the current ones.

It was time for a rousing speech. Dirk Speedblood cried out to all who would listen. "Zeroes, Ones, Twos, the lowest in the society of Pile! Hear me and be free!"

A few tired men and women shifted their eyes toward Dirk Speedblood. With the massive weight above them, they could hardly do much more. Dirk Speedblood continued. "Those above you keep you in place with dreams of being able to move up, to see the Duke one day, or even become the Duke. They do this to hide a very important fact- no pile can stand without its base!"

Glimmers of hope began to stir in the Pile residents. "But what can we do?" asked a diesel-soaked crone, her head barely above the liquid fuel.

"I'm glad you asked!" replied Dirk Speedblood. "I think it's time to overthrow the current government!" He groaned and pushed upward with all his might, and the whole of Pile shifted just a bit. "Lend your hand and give freedom to all!"

The filthy residents at the base of Pile began to push upward, and ever so slowly, Pile shifted. For a moment, it looked like that was all that would happen, but then the huge pile of people began to tilt.

"Noooooo!" came cries from above, as the whole microsociety was dumped into the biodiesel. Hundreds of people struggled to find their footing in the diesel tank. Grungy diesel-soaked people clawed at each other, desperate to be at a higher layer, unable to accept that Pile was gone.

In the midst of it all, Dirk Speedblood could see a portly gentleman decked out with fine robes and golden chains. He immediately identified the man as the Duke of Pile. "See what happens, Duke, when you ignore the lowest rungs in your society!" But the Duke couldn't reply, as his heavy golden chains dragged him down into the diesel bog.

In the chaos, Dirk Speedblood noticed something in the diesel pool… Bubbles! It could only mean one thing- escape! Dirk Speedblood treaded to the bubbles, took a deep breath, and dove into the diesel pool. He felt his way along the tank until he found a pipe barely large enough to fit into. Dirk Speedblood crawled into the pipe and felt himself being pulled to freedom.


	4. Chapter 4

Dirk Speedblood's savior was a grimy old man in overalls, a cracked pair of goggles pushed up onto his forehead over the wild remnants of his hair. "Oh dear, can't have contaminants in the gas, dear me no, it must be clean and pure, pure and clean…" the man muttered to himself.

Dirk Speedblood was about to thank his rescuer when he was suddenly staggered by the majesty of the room he found himself in. The walls were clearly formed out of Honda Civics, although how many he could not say. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of the cars, scarcely recognizable in their mangled forms, formed a grand cathedral and the beating heart of some unthinkable machine. There were an uncountable number of Civic engines filling the space of the room, all linked together with a complicated assemblage of belts and gears. The chamber was filled with the roar of their combined might, which reverberated off the walls and seemed to stretch into infinity. The room was too dimly lit to see the ceiling, but it surely extended at least a hundred feet up. The walls were decorated with a morbid arrangement of skulls, bones, and jagged spikes.

Pulling himself together, Dirk Speedblood thanked his savior and asked his name. The strange, twitchy man introduced himself as the Maestro and wandered off, still muttering to himself. "Maestro!" Dirk Speedblood called after the man, "What is this place?"

"This place? What else could it be? This is the Civic Opera, and I am its Maestro. I see to everything, I do. Every gear, every belt. I see to it that the holy gasoline is not tainted by the likes of you, oh no, wouldn't do."

"Gasoline?" Dirk Speedblood asked in confusion, "But this is diesel, not gasoline."

The mad old man's demeanor changed instantly. "BLASPHEMY! INFIDEL! THE HOLY GASOLINE WILL CLEANSE YOU!"

The Maestro raced at Dirk Speedblood, a lit flamethrower suddenly in his arms. Thinking quickly, Dirk Speedblood tripped him over a nearby railing and watched as the old man fell into the collection of engines. The roaring belts and gears pulped him and sent his mortal remains splashing onto the walls. Considering the décor, Dirk Speedblood doubted that anyone would notice. Clearly, his next step was to find a way out of the Civic Opera.

This was easier said than done, however. The vast interior was a confusing maze of corridors, all alike. Dirk Speedblood checked room after room, finding nothing of any value, until he stumbled into a room nearly as vast as the engine room. This room, however, was not dominated by a collection of machinery. Instead, there was an emaciated man, his eyes gouged out and the sockets constantly weeping, suspended from a vast array of wires and hooks that held him with his arms stretched out and his wasted legs dangling limply. "So you have come, Dirk Speedblood," said the man.

"Who are you? How do you know who I am?" demanded Dirk Speedblood.

"I am the Eku," said the man, "And all paths are open to my sight."

He grinned terribly, revealing rotten and greenish teeth. "But you had best be going. The choir is about to start singing."

Before Dirk Speedblood could question what the Eku meant, an unearthly wailing started drifting up from the bowels of the Civic Opera. It was, he supposed, technically singing, but there was something incredibly off about it, sounding more like the primal screams of tortured animals than human voices. A lesser man would have fled in panic, but there wasn't an ounce of cowardice in Dirk Speedblood's body. He stayed, about to ask the Eku for more guidance, but it quickly became obvious that the Eku would be of no further help.

The man's eyeless sockets began glowing with an eerie red light that cast shadows unnaturally, as though something that couldn't be seen was blocking and reflecting it. "THE PATH HAS BEEN SET!" the Eku roared, his voice sounding like dozens of people speaking in harmony, "THE POLIC INTERCEPTOR SHALL BE CRUSHED BENEATH OUR RIGHTEOUS WHEELS!"

There was no doubt in Dirk Speedblood's mind as to who the Eku was speaking of. He turned and fled, knowing that the lives of his friends rested in his hands. Or, considering his current condition, his hand.


	5. Chapter 5

The lands ahead were a dusty hellscape. Rain hadn't fallen in these parts for a thousand years, and it showed. A dusty, withered rose poked feebly from the ground, the lone sign of life within a thousand miles. And Mad Max drove straight over it with his Police Interceptor.

Max was Mad. Mad at himself for letting his new friends down. Mad at the Speedblood for hoarding the gas in Sacktown. Mad at Dirk Speedblood for getting himself killed.

The Road Warrior dug a crusty digit into his nose and retrieved a dry clod of snot. He started rolling it in his fingers. "Why do I drive an Interceptor?" he mused to himself. "A thousand other cars I could choose. Some with flamethrowers, some with spikes." He slipped the booger into a pouch for later eating. "Sometimes… the car just chooses the driver."

He drove for hours without stopping, without getting tired. He could hear the song of the moon, and the dance of the stars. He could see the dawn of humanity, and its end. And he knew that he couldn't run forever.

Dirk Speedblood had driven a Honda Civic. Compared to the Police Interceptor, it seemed to be a weak vehicle, but Max couldn't be sure what was under the hood. Dirk Speedblood looked like one who might be harboring great power under the surface. The blood red Civic had a few aftermarket parts and some stickers, but lots of cars had those without being fast. A lot of it depended on the driver.

The Civic and the Police Interceptor. Both names represented a responsibility to the public, and an authority over the general population. Max was the final remnant from an era where police protected the innocent. Did Dirk Speedblood share the same responsibility? His car name seemed to indicate as much.

A demonic roar broke Max's reverie. The roar sounded like the death knell of a trillion tortured souls, all moaning to the whim of a hellish conductor. The tune was so foreign, yet to Max it also seemed strangely familiar. Like it was the same song that had been playing in Max's mind for these past eons.

Max spit in surprise when he saw the monstrosity appear on the horizon. He quickly collected the spit into a bottle to save for later, all while pushing his gas pedal further into the floor to try to outrun the hideous fortress. A tower, composed of hideously warped Honda Civics, was accelerating toward him. The frames of the Civics twisted and squealed under the torque of a million kilogram machine built to spread death over the world.

The thought sickened Max. Just like how the Police Interceptor and Dirk Speedblood's Honda Civic represented their nobility and duty toward the innocent, the idea of a repulsive Civic fortress showed the corrupt nature of Max Speedblood's rule over her subjects. It had grown bloated beyond usefulness and now only existed to spread despair.

The Interceptor wasn't accelerating as quickly as Max expected. Frantically, he checked the gas gauge. Still half full… Then what was wrong?

With a start, Max realized the issue. He reached behind his seat and grabbed the now-empty sack of gas he had bought in Sacktown. He dipped his finger into the sack to rub it against the residue, and he tasted the substance on his finger. _Diesel._ Inferior to gas, diesel would limit how well his car could accelerate. He would never be able to outrun the horrible Civic machine now.

The Road Warrior slammed on his emergency brake and drifted 180 degrees. He forced his shifter into 6th gear and raced straight at the behemoth. If he couldn't outrun destiny, at least he could face it head on.


	6. Chapter 6

Krystal Kimiko's vibrant green cat eyes saw things that no one else could, that no one else could even imagine. She could see the delicate interplay of motes of dust, forced into a chaotic dance by powers far above them. She could see the fragile pulse of a mutie rat's arteries from a hundred paces, the doomed impulses keeping an evolutionary dead end alive. And now, she was about to witness something even she had never seen before. "So," she purred, "This is what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object."

While the result of the upcoming collision of the Civic Opera and Mad Max's Police Interceptor would seem to be a foregone conclusion to anyone else, she could see the aura surrounding Mad Max and his car. His determination, his strength of will and, yes, his Madness had all come together to imbue the car with a power that was at least the equal of the Eku.

But at the last second, right before the two wills could collide, a figure jumped out of the Civic Opera and into the Police Interceptor, then out through the window of the Police Interceptor with Mad Max in its arms. There was no doubt in Krystal Kimiko's mind as to who that figure was. "Dirk Speedblood!" she yelled joyously, running towards the still tumbling figures.

Meanwhile, the Civic Opera had changed course by just enough to avoid colliding with the Police Interceptor. Perhaps the Eku had sensed that his prey was no longer in the vehicle, or perhaps he didn't have the nerve to win at games of chicken. Perhaps his visions of the future had whispered to him that their confrontation would happen later, the fickle whims of destiny pulling them apart for the moment only to collide more forcefully later. Whatever the case, the Civic Opera continued to trundle across the desert, and the Police Interceptor gradually coasted to a stop.

Krystal Kimiko caught up to Dirk Speedblood and Mad Max as the two were making their way to their feet. "You shouldn't have pulled me out," growled Mad Max, "I had him."

"Had him? _Had_ him? You never had him, Max! You would have died!" Dirk Speedblood retorted furiously, his anger at the foolishness of his comrade making his words spill out far faster than he would have normally spoken.

Mad Max shrugged. "I'll die when it's my time. No sooner."

Before Dirk Speedblood and Mad Max could continue, Krystal Kimiko interrupted. "There's something important you need to know, Dirk Speedblood. It's not gasoline that they're selling in Sack Town. It's—"

Krystal Kimiko was in turn interrupted by Mad Max and Dirk Speedblood speaking simultaneously, "Diesel."

They spat the name of the inferior hydrocarbon with the distaste that it deserved. No true driver would sully their car with it; a car with a diesel engine could hardly be called a car at all.

"But I don't think they know that in Sack Town…" Dirk Speedblood said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.

"What are you thinking?" Krystal Kimiko asked, her tail swinging back and forth in time to her curiosity, "I can almost see the gears in your head turning."

"I know how we can defeat Max Speedblood and bring down her corrupt regime."

"How?" asked Mad Max disinterestedly, leaning against his Police Interceptor and casually picking at his teeth with a machete.

"We tell the truth to the residents of Sack Town! We tell them that they've been fed a poison and told that it's good for them! We tell them that they've been using diesel!"


	7. Chapter 7

The crew made their way back to the center of Sack Town, where the residents were packed shoulder to shoulder in the town square. At the center of the square was a fountain with a larger than life statue of Max Speedblood, one hand holding aloft a katana and the other a fuel nozzle. A steady stream of diesel issued from the fuel nozzle and into the fountain, which was a pool of diesel about ten meters in diameter. The statue was, Dirk Speedblood thought, a perfect representation of the duality of Max Speedblood's regime. The sword that offered protection or punishment, the fuel that offered stability or chaos; both elements formed on a rotten basis of lies.

"People of Sack Town!" Dirk Speedblood bellowed, "My name is Dirk Speedblood, and I have an important message for you!"

At his pronouncement, the assembled filthy peasants of Sack Town broke into hushed murmurs. They must have known of the legendary reputation that preceded him wherever he went. It was a terrible burden, but one that he bore gladly compared to the alternative. "Max Speedblood has lied to you!" he continued, after waiting a moment to allow the whispers to cease, "What she gives you is not gasoline, but rather diesel!"

The crowd flew into a paroxysm of sound and fury, their voices raised in a cacophony of dissonant and vehement disagreement. Dirk Speedblood momentarily thought that it would descend into a riot, but a man walked to the plinth that the statue stood on and reclaimed order. He stood out from the peasants of Sack Town with his gleaming white robes and chrome jewelry. All eyes instinctively turned to him.

"I am the Elder of Sack Town," he announced in a booming voice that filled the square, "And your lies will not be tolerated, Dirk Speedblood!"

"I'm no liar!" retorted Dirk Speedblood, "Max Speedblood offers diesel, not gas!"

"No one could honestly be as foolish as to claim that. Obviously, you must be lying to get our attention for some twisted purpose. Do you find it enjoyable, trying to mislead the good citizens of Sack Town?"

"I'll prove it to you!" Dirk Speedblood said, but the Elder continued speaking.

"You flourish on our anger at your deliberate obtuseness. Therefore, we shall simply ignore you. Come along citizens, there is nothing to see here."

The peasants began shuffling out of the town square like the sheep that they were. But Dirk Speedblood was not a sheep. He had the speed of a cheetah, the ferocity of a wolf, and the nobility of a lion. Those traits meant that he knew exactly what he had to do.

"If it really is gasoline, it will burn, will it not?" Dirk Speedblood roared, "Well then, explain this!"

He grabbed Mad Max's lighter and ignited it, then lobbed it towards the fountain.

"You maniac!" the Elder screamed, "What are you doing?!"

"I'm proving my point!" said Dirk Speedblood, "Gasoline burns and diesel doesn't, so if we all aren't instantly killed in a massive fireball it proves that this must be diesel!"

"You're sure that diesel doesn't burn," purred Krystal Kimiko looking somewhat concerned, "Right?"

The right side of Dirk Speedblood's mouth twitched upwards in a lopsided smirk, "I've had some prior experience with pools of diesel."

Mad Max simply stood and grunted. "You owe me a new lighter if you blow us all up."

All eyes were on the lighter as it continued its arc into the pool of fuel at the foot of the statue. With a splash that echoed in the sudden stillness, it hit the surface of the liquid.


	8. Chapter 8

To Dirk Speedblood, all was darkness. What happened? The last he remembered, Mad Max's lighter was spiraling toward a pool of possibly flammable liquid. There was a bright flash, and then the world fell into a black void.

Dirk Speedblood opened his eyes and the light returned. Peasant chunks fell from the sky and landed in messy piles of gore. Red embers glowed ominously where brown burlap sacks had caught some of the incendiary blast. What could have happened?

With an intellect rivaling the greatest detectives in history, Dirk Speedblood thought back to what might have caused the blast. A lighter falling toward a pool of diesel. A flash and a boom. The chants of skeptical elders. The pieces fell together like the world's most difficult puzzle.

"Ah, so you've figured it out, have you?" spoke a cruel, taunting voice. Dirk Speedblood turned around and stared into the grim face of his sister, Max Speedblood. "You played right into my hands," emphasizing the word _hands_ to call out Dirk Speedblood's lack of one of his own. "You played your part, and now you can die."

Dirk Speedblood furrowed his brow. "You switched the fuels, didn't you?" He pointed a finger accusingly at Max. "By swapping the last of Sacktown's gasoline into the fountain, you made sure I'd destroy it, leaving the future of the wasteland in the hands of those with diesel power."

Max grinned. "Just like my brother to figure it out. I knew your genius intellect would get you 99 percent of the way there. But some times that last percentage point makes all the difference." Max knelt and picked up an ivory horn roughly the size of an elephant's tusk and blew into it. The resulting blast of sound shook Dirk Speedblood to his bones. In the distance, the massive cogs and unnatural pistons of the Civic Opera shrieked a hideous reply.

"So, this is it, huh?" asked Dirk Speedblood. With no allies remaining, he had no choice but to wait for the Civic Opera to come and mash him under its condemned wheels.

"You shouldn't give up like that," spoke a new voice in a gruff yet supportive tone. Dirk Speedblood turned and saw the specter of a dead man- the one true Mad Max.


End file.
